Bones To Pick
by solitariusvirtus
Summary: Taking advantage of the havoc caused by Brandon Stark and the royal Princess, Rhaegar Waters finds his way into lordship and wardenship of the North. His determination to remain within the position, however, is sorely tested. AU! The King's bastard marries a she-wolf and together they live through interesting times.
1. The Circle Remains

There were very few certainties in life. One of them, absolute and inexorable, was death. Lyanna Stark had learned from a very young age the meaning of death. She had been a girl of five when her mother birthed her fifth child. It had been a girl, a perfect, tiny Northern child that promised a long life with a loud wail that shook the keep itself. No more than a moon turn later they were entombing her in the crypts amid tears and shrieks. Her mother's grief had been heartbreaking even for the child that Lyanna was then.

Her next brush with death came in the form of one of her father's hounds. Just as unexpected as the death of her sister had been three years past, her father's dog lied at her feet, closed its eyes, fell into slumber and forgot to wake up. The creature had been given to the earth too, thought with less pomp, to be sure.

The third encounter included an old mare that had to be put out after breaking a leg. Lyanna had cried and cried for hours on end, begging her father to save the horse. All her ten years' wisdom was poured into saving the beast. Nothing came of it, of course, and the mare was still given the axe. The feeling Lyanna was left with, however, had yet to fade. She was reminded of the inescapability of death wherever she went.

And yet, at times, death was a comfort. The enormity wrapped about her tightly, like a chain, squeezing, digging into her flesh, cutting. She wanted to weep and plead against it. But at the same time, it was almost welcome. She took a long breath, trying to calm herself. Her eyes went to the door, the heavy wood door that stood between her and freedom. If she could pick up her skirts and spring towards it, perhaps she'd be able to make it to the stables somehow. If she could only locate them.

Her thought turned once more towards the permanent ending, the point at which she would stop existing, and like her sister, she would find herself entombed in a cold, dark place, never to breathe again, never to see a ray of light. What use did the dead have for light, anyway? The thought brought a small smile flickering upon her face. Light. She hadn't seen anything but the light of candles for the past few days. The young she-wolf looked down at her lap. Her dress, once quite pretty and pristine, had somehow managed to develop stains and cuts. Or had she somehow been responsible for them? Or perhaps it had been the King's men. She did not know. All that she knew was that, if death was to claim her, she wished it would move faster. She hadn't been made for waiting.

The maiden wondered about her brothers and her poor father. Had death robbed her of them? Were they still waiting for the blade too?

The door creaked open. Lyanna nearly jumped to her feet, but she caught herself at the last moment and staved off the impulse. Her frame merely shook with the effort. The light of the candle flickered. For one horrible long moment she thought it would fade, the light, and leave her in the dark. She could not stand the dark. Not on her own.

In entered a tall man. She knew him. But then again, everyone knew him. Lyanna threw the intruder an audacious glare. If he thought to intimidate her then he ought to think on it some more. She would show him that the wolves of Winterfell were not so easily cowed. In particular her own person would not be so easily cowed.

Outside the hall she thought she caught a glimpse of shining metal. But before she could identify whatever it was that she had seen, the door was closed with a loud sound. It left her alone with him. Suspicious, her gaze travelled the distance between them. There was a small desk that separated them, but it would be so very easy for him to go around it. Dread filled her as she looked up into his face.

Oh cursed day. Lyanna held his gaze, more out of habit than a desire to challenge. Amethyst shone warm in the sweet light of the candle. Or mayhap it was a trick brought on my wear and fatigue. He smiled enigmatically down at her, as if to test the will residing within the supple body. He took a seat in the only other chair and rested one hand on the tabletop. His other had deposited a small ledger on the desk and a piece of paper.

"Why am I here?" she asked without waiting for an invitation to speak. They had kept her locked in this room with no windows or even small cracks for what felt like an eternity.

Instead of answering, her companion gave her a questioning look. He went meticulously about preparing a quill and inkpot for use. Lyanna watched his long elegant fingers open the ledger. A shiver ran down her spine. Fear twisted her insides. No answer came forth. It was in itself a type of torture. Lyanna's jaw trembled with the effort of keeping in her screams. She wanted to desperately to shout out, to pick up something and just hit him with it. For the love of the old gods and the new, she would slip into insanity if he did not speak soon.

"I think you know very well why you are here, Lady Lyanna," he said, finally settling upon a page. He held out the paper towards her. Her eyes darted to and fro between his face and it. "Take it, my lady." He let it drop carelessly before her hand had even come halfway through the distance.

A flush of indignation coloured her cheeks. Her fingers wrapped around the paper and pulled it to her, clutching at the thick layer, creasing it without a thought. "Open it," her gaoler instructed, his eyes having fallen to his small booklet as if her presence did not quite make a difference to him.

Lyanna did as instructed. She opened the folded paper slowly, painstakingly, her fingers trembling all the while. She wondered what sort of sight she made, unkempt and in a deplorable state as she was. She read the first few lines and threw the letter away from her as if she'd been burned. Her companion looked up from his own reading. "Lady Lyanna, you must read the entire letter." His eyes returned to the ledger.

Unable to remain quiet, Lyanna slapped her hand to the tabletop. "I need not," she declared loudly. "I can imagine the content." She had almost said she knew; that would have sealed her fate. Anticipation churned through her.

The small book was slammed shut. "Did you have prior knowledge of your brother's actions and his subsequent conduct?" came the inevitable question.

Her knees were shaking. Lyanna felt the dread unfurl inside of her. "Nay," she denied vehemently, shaking her head. "I knew nothing." But she had known. She had seen Brandon slipping out of his tent late at night and she knew that there were only so many reasons for which he would do that.

And what had she done? Well, she had pretended ignorance and vowed to escape as soon as she possibly could, for which reason she had gone to her father and without preamble declared that she had changed her mind about the drunken, whoring, hateful character whom the patriarch of House Stark thought a fine match for her. She had told her father that after Brandon wedded his Southron betrothed she would be more than happy to become Robert's wife. At least that way she could be well and truly safe when Brandon's mischief found its way to light, as she'd known it would.

Only it had happened much too soon. Lyanna cursed her luck and the timing of the gods. Had they waited even a few days more, she would have stolen a horse and ran away, and hang the consequences. But nay, instead the King's men had descended upon them just as Brandon and his bride were about to exchange vows. They had arrested people left and right, but, of course, their true target was none other than her idiot brother. If she could, Lyanna would wring his neck, no matter that he was nearly twice her size and three times as strong. Her lips curled in distaste.

A soft hiss distracted her. Lyanna involuntarily looked into the eyes of the man seated before her. "I truly knew nothing of his heinous actions," she trailed off, unsure of how she was to continue. like Robert would have deferred to her speech, if she'd been coy and demure.

The one before her was quite another story. Robert was, in his own way, a naïve sort that she might easily twist with a smile or a pout. The King's bastard looked at her as if she were a piece of furniture, of no value to him in the state she was in and no more to be desired than a poxy whore waiting for a sailor at the docks. In other words, she did not matter to him. Not at all.

"Ser is proper address, I believe," came the rejoinder. "Would you not agree, Lady Lyanna?" A chilling smile came alive in the low light.

But her thoughts turned to her brother, once again, and all the ways she would like to kill in. "Of course, ser."

"But you are truly certain that you knew nothing?" he questioned once again.

"Absolutely, ser." She hadn't known from the start. Once she found out the truth of what had transpired, shortly after the King and his company left for King's Landing, Lyanna had gone to her father, seeking to make haste in becoming a bride herself.

"So I see." He stood to his feet and came around the table, placing himself behind her chair. He leaned in, catching the heavy curtain of her unbound hair and dragging it over her shoulder. His warm breath fanned against her skin, rising goose bumps all over. Something roiled inside of her. Lyanna's breath caught in her throat. Her shoulders grew stiff when one hand descended upon the bone and flesh, resting heavily upon the thick wool of her dress. Powerful fingers dug in. She could hear his long sigh.

"Don't think for one moment that this will save you, my lady. The King swims in wrath and your brother has brought it upon all the heads of your family." The soft words made her heart speed up faster than it ever had. "You are a good liar, I shall give you that. But I am better."

Suddenly her head was careering towards the wooden table. The right side of her face smacked against the tabletop with a thud. Pain erupted beneath her skin, burning and tearing through her flesh. Lyanna cried out, instinctively trying to escape his hold. The more she fought, the harder the press became, until her cranium felt like it might well explode. Colours swirled behind her eyes. Fatigue spread throughout her body. Ever so slowly she gave up the fight.

"I ask you again, did you know what your brother was doing?" his voice, which had been even before had grown slightly rough.

Lyanna breathed in furiously through her nose. "I suspected, but only later. Much too late to end anything," she managed to whimper out through the wave of pain that rolled inside of her. "I beg of you," she tried gaining his sympathy, "what could I have done?"

Not much, Lyanna decided. Brandon had never been good at listening to common sense. But she had never truly thought he would lead them all into the dragon's gaping mouth. With mounting horror she thought about what would follow.

Just as suddenly as she'd found herself growing intimate with the wood, Lyanna was released, pulled back without much care for her dignity or comfort. Pain lacerated through every fibre of her being, and not only of the physical kind. She felt sick. Lyanna wondered briefly if she could escape with vomiting all over the man's boots. What was the worse he could do to her, after all that had happened?

"Lord Baratheon would like me to inform you that his offer is no longer standing, my lady." The words came like a punch to the head. Lyanna jumped to her feet and whirled around. She found herself caught between the table and the King's bastard. His mesmerising eyes bore down into hers. "He would have had his own man tell you, you see, but the King has given strict instructions that you are to receive no visitors until judgement has been passed."

That infuriating bastard, Lyanna mentally roared. But Rhaegar Waters walked away from her with an easy step. Gathering his things, he went to the door and knocked even as she craned her neck to better see what he was doing. "I shall have them take you back to your chamber, Lady Lyanna," he said, before sweeping her a mocking bow and making his way out into the hallway.

Damnation. After she had worked so hard to ensure that Brandon's folly would not be her own grave. Indignation and despair made a mute out of her. In the very best of circumstances she might have only impinged upon his pride as it were. That was mayhap the worst of it. To be entirely powerless and faced with a guilt neither deserved nor fairly attributed as such it was.

Not even when facing the three squires has she felt anything its like, the powerlessness that bound her. Woe to him that must be held accountable for another's misconduct.

Brandon and his moronic comport would endure at the very least a few choice words if she had the displeasure of coming face to face with the wretched creature. Lyanna was determined that he would hear of her what their lord father and lady mother ought to have told him long ago.

* * *

Rhaegar looked up at the sound of another person intruding into his private space. He stooped scribbling midsentence, holding the quill up, pointing its sharp end towards Arthur who was just closing the door. "Is it taken care of then?"

"Aye." Uncertainty shone in the other man's eyes. "I still do not understand, Rhaegar. The King's orders were not to interrogate them." He sat down in a chair without waiting to be invited to do so. "You tarry, and he will not appreciate this. What reason will you give?"

"If there is anything my father wants more than revenge in this moment, then that is Winterfell." Rhaegar took one of the blood oranges on the table and started peeling it carefully. The skin came off in large strips. "The problem, however, is that not only is Lord Stark alive and well, he had three sons and a daughter besides. And his wife may yet birth him children. There are so very few viable solutions."

He could have perhaps followed his father's instructions. But that would have meant losing the North forever. Rhaegar reached for the knife and sliced through the fruit. "I expect he shall be angry at first, but once he understands, that shall pass."

"But the Princess," Arthur ventured.

"Is dead," came the answer, more a reminder than an attempt at gaining sympathy. "Shaena will not come back to life, even if I chop off every head in the Stark service." She had been burned and her ashes had been safely locked in Baelor's Sept. Of that he held no doubt.

"I still say you have a care," his friend advised. "The Queen is past mourning now. And she will seek retribution for the daughter she has lost. What will you do then? You cannot possibly protect them from every attack dealt."

"Nor would I want to," he cut in. "The Starks are responsible for my sister's death, after all. Why should I protect them? Nay, I mean to use them. An eye for an eye."

"You mean the girl. She is not more than a child, Rhaegar," Arthur pointed out, not with horror. The court cured anyone of such qualms. But there was a sort of distrust that he sensed.

Arthur was, and had always been, entirely remarkable in that he always managed to summon some dredge of sympathy for the most unfortunate souls. He was, as they say, an idealist who had never learned as much as he ought to within his years at court.

On the other hand, he could, at times, be painfully pragmatic.

"Shaena was no older than her," Rhaegar delivered, waving the concern away.

"She is a wilful, wild girl who is as likely to bite the hand that pulls her out of the mire her brother has landed her in, as she is to thank you for her life." His Dornish friend shook his head. "It is not worth the trouble."

Rhaegar sighed and combed his fingers through his hair. "Dayne, if we kill them, we win nothing but a void in the chain of power. Other lords will fight over that seat. Sorting that out will take time and resources which I am not willing to spare merely to fulfil my father's desire for what he thinks to be justice."

"Then take the heads of the men at least," insisted Arthur. "The King will not be pleased otherwise."

"He gave me freedom of decision and I shall make use of that however I deem fit, my friend. There is no use in trying to change my mind." After all, he knew why he was doing what he was doing. "Those men charged with escorting Lady Lyanna the previous day, break three fingers on each one's hand."

"They did not cause her that much harm," his companion said softly. "She was fighting to escape." Rhaegar had heard of her attempt, and knew very well what she'd been charged for it. To price was not fair, was all.

"An admirable trait in anyone, more so in a woman in her circumstances. She was no true threat, yet they still chose to use violence against her. Three fingers each," he spoke decisively. "My orders were clear."

"So they were," Arthur agreed after a moment of silence. "Well, I will leave you to your work then." He stood to his feet, prepared to do exactly as he'd said.

Knowing that Arthur would see to everything that he'd been instructed to do, Rhaegar returned his attention to the letter he had been writing. Of course, the King would be mad at the scheme. But he was ever in a sour disposition, so that would be no true news. Aerys Targaryen was well and truly insane, as it were. That made him the best or worst of allies, depending on his mood. It was very true that he had been angered at the death of his sole daughter, but the King had not meant to do her justice. Shaena was to lie uneasily even in her afterlife, for her father would see what was to be gained from her death.

Rhaegar was in full agreement with the man. It would not do to allow the chance to slip by. Shaena was gone and nothing would bring her back. The Queen could mourn all she liked. Rhaegar had other matters to settle. His sister's death had effectively left the heir apparent without a match. It was time to see how far greed could push the noble families of Westeros. Tyrells and Lannisters, Martells and Arryns, Tullys too. Any of them could provide a suitable candidate.

The issue of suitability, however, was not quite as important as that of acceptability. Daeron was young and impressionable, his mother's son except for his temper. The Queen, Rhaegar was very sorry to think it, was not exceptionally bright, nor particularly skilled. The King had chosen her for her beauty and apparent docility. The son she had given him followed her in both beauty and wit. There had been worse candidates for the throne, his father included. Daeron was malleable, he could still be moulded. If, of course, his choice of wife supported such attempts.

His brother had need of someone who would not hinder him at worst. At best, he needed a paragon. That paragon Rhaegar would have been all too happy to search for, if she had ever existed. Life, however, had taught him that fair maidens were always fairer in songs, their nature rarely a mirror of their outer façade. The more beauty a face exhibited, the less likely it was that such a person might come to care for anyone but themselves. That was not entirely a matter to be harshly judged against. It made Rhaegar all the more capable of setting the puppets a-dancing to a tune of his liking.

It would not do to waste anymore of his time, he decided. There were some answers he sought and delaying any further would only cause more harm than good. Rhaegar put away his quill and stood up, pulling from the papers on his desk a particular one which he had need of in the matters to follow.

* * *

Ned pulled on the chain, trying to see if he could possibly loosen the hold. He was not satisfied in his desire. A grimace decorated his features, bleak as the fate that waited them all. He fell back upon the dry hay and looked about the holding cell. He could not believe what had happened. Of all the foolish things Brandon had done in the past, this was the very worst.

Mischief was second nature to his older brother, yet for the most part, even the fearless son of the wolf had known not to tempt dark waters by swimming out at sea. Yet the moment he was presented with an enchanting little creature it seemed that even reason abandoned the young fool and he pursued her regardless of what his behaviour might bring upon those near and dear to his heart.

He should have known. He should have known that Brandon would not be able to help himself. And that had landed them in their current situation It was preposterous. And to have been arrested at his own wedding of all the times and places. Such shame would not be easily washed away. Not for him and not for his bride either. Ned fairly imagined the maiden burned with righteous indignation at the wrong that she'd been done and good reason she had to. A madman would be the one that blamed Catelyn Tully for it anymore than innocent pray was to be blamed for being caught in the cruel steel of a freshly sprung trap.

Something sounded out behind him. Ned gave one last half-hearted tug on the chain before the visitor spoke. "I fear there is no escaping those, unless you have Valyrian steel on you." Ned turned to look at the King's bastard. The dreaded Rhaegar Waters.

"Ser, I have already said all I had to say," he returned harshly, in no mood to exchange even the briefest of conversations with the man who had been tasked to carry out the King's will.

"But I have not," came the unwavering reply. The door opened once again and his father was pushed in by a large man. "Lord Stark, how good of you to join us. I have a proposition for you."

Distrust creeping inside his heart, Ned glanced at his father. What he saw did not offer him reassurance. Slightly bent and haggard, the Lord Stark of old did not seem to fare well in the care of his gaolers. And the man was made of stern stuff. It brought fear to Ned's mind, to think of those with less steel in their veins and how they got along.

"What is this proposition?" Rickard questioned, impotent rage shining in his eyes, a wild flame, even more telling than his form. "What could you possibly wish to speak to us of?"

"I would not be so hasty in offering my dismissal were I you, my lord" Rhaegar Waters cut the Lord of Winterfell off. "It might prove your salvation." A heavy silence followed his words. Ned shifted uncomfortably, weighed down by the allure of the promise, yet unable to let go of his distrust enough so that he might believe.

"Save my life, will you?" his father spat. "And what would cost me, ser? Gold Dragons and Silver Stags? Or perhaps it is land you desire?" Ned did not understand. How could the King's bastard possibly gain land from them?

"I have no need of your coin, or of your land. What I do need, however, is your name." The bastard settled himself comfortably down as if he had no care in the world and a floor covered in dirty straw was a perfect spot to rest upon. "You know as well as I do that your eldest son's folly has put your house at great risk. But do you know, my lord, that the King ordered me here with the expectation that I would see all your heads mounted on the walls of the keep?"

His father paled. Ned looked between the two of them, hesitant and troubled, his neck stiffening in pain at the notion of flesh being cleaved. "Why didn't you?" he could not help but ask when his own father offered nothing but sullen silence. "Do you not wish to restore your sister's honour?"

"Of course I do," the silver haired man answered with a thin smile. The cutting gesture nearly made him shrink, but Ned pushed his tongue against his teeth and willed his body to remain still. "But there are ways of doing so without sending you all to your graves."

"Why should we put our trust in you?" the head of House Stark demanded, seeming to come back to himself now that a line of rope had been offered and he might drag himself away from danger.

"What other choice do you have, my lord?" Rhaegar laughed. "Your life for a name, to my mind the price is reasonable enough. But you have of me time to consider if that is your will. I warn you though, give me your answer before we reach the day is out and we begin our journey, else there is naught I can do for you."

* * *

Lysa Tully was about of an age with Lady Lyanna. Rhaegar looked at the girl who has stealing glances at him and blushing whenever he met her gaze. Her older sister was a veritable block of ice though. Rhaegar expected that she was the one whom fortunes had favoured over the younger sibling. Catelyn Tully's eyes flashed with something akin to hatred. Rhaegar could barely hold in his amusement.

Her reaction was understandable, given what she had lived. All the same, however, it made for a truly amusing scene.

"This situation is rather unpleasant for all of us," Hoster Tully remarked blandly. Rhaegar nodded dutifully. "My daughter, ser, is not at fault in this, I swear to you."

"Peace, my lord," Rhaegar murmured. "His Majesty does not blame your daughter for the debacle. After all, she was not present at Harrenhal. I daresay the whole situation would have been much different if she had." But mayhap not. Brandon Stak had had knowledge of his betrothed even as he betrayed her. Her presence or lack thereof was negligible.

"But surely this will affect both of them," Lord Tully continued. "A parent cannot sit idly by when the honour of his children has been besmirched."

Rhaegar lifted the wine cup to his lips and took a small sip. Lysa Tully would do tolerably well, he decided. "There will be no such repercussion as the ones you imply, my lord. His Majesty will arrange matters satisfactorily for all involved."

"But, ser," Lysa jumped in, "whatever shall happen to…," she trailed off, glancing shyly at her older sister.

"Were it of my choosing, my lady, proper punishment would be doled out," he answered calmly. "Yet I cannot rightly guess what the King's decision will be in this."

The older sister stood to her feet swiftly. "Pray excuse me, father, ser, I must see to my duties."

"But Cat, you have barely eaten a bite," Lysa spoke softly, almost fearfully.

Aye, she would do indeed. Rhaegar looked between father and daughter, waiting to see what Lord Hoster would do. "There is time enough for your duties, daughter," the man tried to stay her departure. "Come, sit."

"If Lady Catelyn must away, then I say we do not hold her from her duties," he suggested. Lord Hoster changed his tune. Such strange creatures, these nobles. They would not have paid him any mind had he been any other bastard but the King's.

The hall resumed its usual din. Rhaegar slipped from his place without much care. He followed quietly after Catelyn Tully. But the lady stopped in the middle of the hall and turned towards him with all the rage of a storm.

"What is it that you want, ser?" she asked with irritation.

Rhaegar smiled charmingly at her. "I do not intend to hold you long, my lady. I have a favour to ask of you, if you will."

The woman flushed with indignation. "What may I do for you, ser?" Fury ruled too strongly in her, Rhaegar considered, countering her violent impatience with his calm manner.

"Pray see to it that your master pays a visit to Lady Lyanna's bedchamber. We should not want her to wither and expire from neglect." Surprise painted the female's features, but Rhaegar did not linger longer in her presence to determine more than that.

He returned to the great hall and slid back into place.


	2. Bones To Pick

Lyanna considered the man standing before her carefully. He has sat down in a chair almost as soon as he had entered, unbothered by her less than subtle glares or the fact that she scowled periodically so as to remind him that she did not relish his presence.

"Has the maester been by, my lady?" Rhaegar questioned, fingers fiddling with a small rock. Surely he hadn't come to her bedchamber to question her on the maester's treatment.

"Aye, ser," she replied, eyes falling once more from his face to his hand. He was still holding that rock. Lyanna looked at the small, smooth object. It was black, dark as pitch. Involuntarily, she shivered.

"I must apologise for my men, Lady Lyanna. I truly have nothing to say in their defence but that they took their duty too seriously." He was trying to gain something from her, Lyanna realised after a few silent heartbeats had passed.

Since being returned to a proper bedchamber, she had had servants come up to fill a tub and bring clean clothes and comb her hair. She was brought delicious food. It was almost as if she were free once more, except for the soldiers at her door. They would allow others entry, but she was never to step outside the room for fear of punishment. Without meaning to, she brought a hand to the side of her face which still bore some faint traces of the treatment she had received.

Rhaegar merely continued to watch her with just as intense a stare as she did him. There was no remorse or pity in his gaze. Briefly, the young she-wolf wondered if he could even experience emotion, but she shook the thought away. Men were men and Rhaegar Waters did not deserve her awe, or her fear. He was just a man like any other.

"Ser," she said, without even a whisper of emotion.

The monsters of her childhood, snarks and grumkins, would disappear if she pulled the covers over her head and closed her eyes, willing them away with the flick of a thought. How arrogant she had been to imagine it would work on the monsters of her adulthood as well. Strain as she might to will away the King's bastard, he would not go, not unless he wished to. It was the conduct of a man of power. Her father had been the same not even a sennight past.

"Lady Stark, do you love your family?" he asked her suddenly, invading even the sanctuary of her thoughts. He would not be banished.

"What sort of question is that, ser? Of course I love my family," she returned coldly.

It occurred to her that he no longer gazed at her as if she were an object to be taken apart and put back together on a whim. Nay, something in his stance, relaxed, peaceful, nearly open, suggested that her presence had become a commodity.

Fear, the kind which came upon one swiftly, born out of half-baked thoughts and impossibilities, settled low in her stomach. Lyanna recognised it for the thing it was. She had felt it before, after all. She had felt it as a girl, on a less conscious level, when Robert Baratheon had stolen a kiss from her, the stink of alcohol on his breath. She had felt it when that man had pressed a hand to her back, pushing her into his chest. Lyanna shivered. As a woman, it was even more visceral. Nothing she could say or do would stop the man before her if he so desired to make use of her. In the eyes of the realm, the Starks were deserving of punishment. Anticipation coursed through her.

"Then save them," the bastard spoke, sitting up from his chair. He walked towards her and Lyanna forced her spine to straighten. He was awfully tall, she registered, taller than even Brandon and next to her oldest brother she still looked a child.

Save them, Lyanna mocked mentally. It was not within her power to save even herself. How could she be expected to save anyone in such conditions? "Is there a suggestion you have for me in that regard, ser? Should I take up a weapon, or mayhap pick some locks? Or is it a simpler matter to settle?"

He looked down upon her with calm, cool eyes. "Have a care, my lady, that sharp tongue of yours might cause you much trouble."

Or her idiot brother, as the case was. "Ser, it is cruel to torture me with games. Say your piece if you will. If not then leave me to my thoughts."

He smiled. Again that enigmatic smile which hid more than it revealed, the smile that haunted her night terrors with firm tenacity. Lyanna wanted so very badly to lash out. Her pride smarted, her mind perceiving without much effort that he was leading her on rather than being interested in anything that had to do with her.

Never in all of her years had anyone treated her thus. "You mock me," she managed to get out breathlessly.

"Only because you make it so easy," he answered. "Your forget yourself, Lyanna Stark."

She remembered the power of his hand as it had cradled her head, pushing it towards the wood. Lyanna watched in fascination as the very same hand come towards her again, this time cupping her slightly discoloured cheek. His thumb brushed gently against her skin as if he feared causing her harm. Her innards quivered and trembled. She couldn't even think straight.

"What do you want?" she questioned, suddenly bereft of all energy. Angered, not only at herself, Lyanna drew back from his touch.

The King's son pulled back as well, as if having remembered himself. Unruffled, he held one hand up, palm towards her, in a gesture meant to convey the lack of threat. Lyanna did not believe him for a moment. She remained tense even as he began walking to the door.

"Ser, you have not answered me," she called after him once she understood he meant to give no answer.

Rhaegar turned to look at her. "Mayhap later, my lady."

He strode out of the room, leaving Lyanna to stare after him, fury slowly rising inside of her.

She drew in a shaky breath.

* * *

Her father took her hand gently. Lyanna noted with apprehension that his rough hand was now scarred as well. Having promised to herself that she would not weep, the maiden kept a stiff upper lip. What seemed to her abhorrent in others, unduly victimisation based on arbitrary causes repeated ad nauseam, was even less acceptable in herself.

Aye, Brandon had acted foolishly and it was not fair that she had to pay along with the rest of her family. But that did not mean she was to sink in despair. The she-wolf was stronger than that. "I am so sorry, father. I should have tried to stop him."

"You couldn't have," Rickard said, patting her hand gently. "Now listen to me, Lyanna, for this is important to us all."

She nodded her head patiently, keen eyes taking in everything from the dirty straw on the ground to the unwashed, greasy hair atop her father's head. It seemed she had preferential treatment. Quite suddenly, Lyanna felt a stab of shame as she looked down upon her clean dress – not new, that was certain, and a bit large on her – but still better than what her father and brothers had.

"Waters has made us a proposition," he began with little preamble. "As things stand now, even if we do manage to somehow escape the executioner's blade, the good name of our house is in ruin, our lands have been stripped away and all our wealth has been confiscated."

Lyanna shivered at the admission. Words made it so much more real. She did not, however, interrupt. There were times when it was best to hold her counsel. Dread filled her at the look on her father's face. "You must wed him. And in exchange he will see to it that we make it through this ordeal alive."

Laughter, strident, filled with disbelief, sprang past her lips. Her father's glare quelled it soon enough though. Stunned into silence, Lyanna gazed at her parent with perfect confusion. "He is a bastard," she whispered softly. "A bastard."

"And you have an eight thousand years old name. Be selfish with your husband's coin, and jewels and trinkets. Be selfish with the rest of the world in whatever way you see fit. But I have raised you. I made you into who you are. Do not dare be selfish with us." The words felt like a slap. Lyanna shrank back. "Give your answer to Rhaegar Waters when next you see him."

She was not allowed to linger much longer. The guards guided her back to her bedchamber. Lyanna waited until they closed the door before breaking down into a sobbing mess. Not because of her duty, not even because of the fact that she would have to be the wife of a bastard, but because, in her heart, she knew very well that her father had the right of it.

Selfish she might be, but a fool she was not. And the trouble was that all her actions seemed to confirm her father's opinion.

Lyanna looked up and, without meaning to, she caught sight of her reflection in a small looking glass. Angrily, she took off one of her slippers and knocked it down. It fell backwards on the table with a satisfying thud.

Sure that if he needed to her own father would drag the agreement out of her, Lyanna decided against fighting the edict. Indeed, she could have continued on selfishly and declined the bastard's proposition. But even she was not prepared to have the death of her family on her conscience. Besides, who else would wed her, give her current circumstances?

Robert Baratheon had been her equal in title, he could have ensured a tolerable existence for her and that had been the principal reason for which she had considered finally agreeing to his proposal. If he had refused her hand after the whole debacle, minor lords would not be trampling each other to have her either.

Rhaegar Waters had no title, but he was still the King's bastard. She merely had to speak words before a septon, allow him his husbandly right and birth him children. It was not something she hadn't been prepared to do for Robert. Did it truly matter whether it was Robert or Rhaegar? At least with the latter she would not have to pretend joy or passion. It was the best that could be had, she supposed.

Consequently, upon Rhaegar Waters' last visit, as he was making the announcement that they were to begin their journey towards King's Landing, Lyanna delicately interrupted him. "Pray forgive me, ser, but I think there are more important matters to discus than what road to take to King's Landing."

Infuriatingly enough, Rhaegar raised one eyebrow at her. "Do you truly, my lady? Very well then, speak."

He was going to make her say it, she realised, not without a flare of anger. But then she remembered herself. It would not do to mistake his treatment for more than it was. Taking a deep breath, Lyanna opened her mouth to consent to their union, but all that came out was a small, embarrassing croak. She blushed crimson and bit down on her lip.

Rhaegar merely leaned back in his chair and pulled that same black rock she had seen before from a pocket. "Well?" He rolled it patiently, expertly between his fingers. Lyanna watched. "Do we have something to discuss or not?"

"I will wed you," she somehow found the power to say. But apparently she hadn't been speaking quite as loud as she thought she had. Confusion bloomed upon the bastard's face. Lyanna was certain it was intentional. When he asked her to repeat, she ground her teeth together and nearly lunged at him. "I will become your wife," she said quite loudly instead.

He did her the courtesy of not appearing surprised, or feigning bewilderment. Rhaegar accepted her answer with a sharp nod and the look of a man who knew he had won. Lyanna sat back in her chair sullenly, not at all pleased with the taste of defeat upon her tongue. But she would live, and perhaps it would be enough.

"Lady Lyanna, you do understand that we must make haste, do you not?" She accommodated him by nodding silently. "The first sept on the road will serve well enough."

She suddenly realised what he was about. Lyanna nodded her head. She did, after all, have her maiden cloak packed in a trunk. It would be a waste not to use it.

* * *

"Is this truly necessary?" his betrothed asked crossly, lifting her bound hands in the air. Lyanna Stark was a splendid horsewomen. Rhaegar did not want to take any chances. "Ser, these ropes are cutting into my skin."

Rhaegar looked at her face. "I am afraid that when they were designed, they neglected your comfort, Lady Lyanna. Next time, I promise to find better ropes." She flushed in indignation and kicked one of her legs towards him. A futile attempt that at best would merely knock her off her own horse. "I would not do that in your stead."

Lyanna Stark gave him a withering glare. She looked back to where her father and brothers were. Rhaegar read the apprehension in the taunt lines of her body. He did not have to look towards the men of her house to know their state. It was for the best, Rhaegar told himself, urging his horse forward.

In the silence that ensued, he could finally be alone with his thoughts. They'd been travelling for some time and most of the men and horses were tired. It would do them all good to stop awhile and rest. Besides, if they did stop, he could untie Lyanna's hands for a short while and she would stop complaining about it, which his ears would greatly appreciate.

There was a sept very near where they were. Rhaegar signalled for Arthur to come nearer. His friend did not waste a moment. "Ride to the village and make sure that it's safe. And send someone to find the Septon and announce our arrival."

"So you truly mean to wed her?" Arthur sighed. "I still say you would be better served looking for a wife elsewhere."

Rhaegar resisted the urge to look back at his bride. "She'll do," he answered solemnly. "Now go, quit wasting time." He sent Arthur on his way, one of the men following him. Lyanna having noted their departure had snapped her attention back to him, an unasked question shining in her eyes. Deciding he owed her no explanation, Rhaegar dug his heels in the horse's flanks and the beast picked up its pace.

He thought on Arthur's words and his own, not particularly reassuring, insistence that Lyanna Stark would do. She would do, he decided for a second time, the reaffirmation pleasant in his mind. She was spoiled and selfish, and more than a little reckless, but she was also young. She had time to learn, to grow. And there was something about her, Rhaegar thought, which would not leave him be.

He supposed he could have spent the rest of life unwedded. And at one time that had been his desire. But given that she sparked his interest and a marriage to him would be of aid to her, why deny himself? The chance would not come again if he let it slip.

"Oh, a village," Lyanna exclaimed loudly, something akin to relief in her voice. "Ser, are we stopping here?" She never spoke his name, he noted. It was always ser with her. He supposed it was to be expected.

"Indeed. It is time to fulfil your part of the bargain, my lady," he replied smoothly. Pointing to a small building, Rhaegar said, "That there is the sept. The Septon must be waiting for us already."

"And I to appear before him bound?" Lyanna questioned mischievously, sensing the opening. "And without even proper attire. For shame, ser, even smallfolk observe this tradition."

No one could ever accuse her of not being consistent. He laughed. "I daresay it would teach you a lesson. But we'll have plenty of time for that later. Nay, Lady Lyanna, you may make use of whatever items you have brought with you for this occasion."

And true to his word, they stopped at an inn, the only inn in the village, where a room was ordered. Hiding her bound hands beneath her travelling cloak, Lyanna accepted the swift pace set by her husband-to-be and struggled to keep up. Why the man had to be so tall, she didn't know, but she dearly hoped his fall would be all the more painful when it did come.

Rhaegar ushered her in a small, neat room and unclasped her cloak from her shoulders letting it fall to the ground. Lyanna was about to speak when he wordlessly took her bound hands and, pulling a small knife from his belt, cut through the ropes. They fell away to reveal raw and chafed skin, its angry red colour suiting her mood perfectly.

Lyanna rubbed the abused limb, wincing when her fingers touched the small wounds. They would heal in a few days. But still, the humiliation would not leave her very soon.

A knock on the door distracted her from her thoughts momentarily. Rhaegar opened it and in came her trunks. A shy, lanky girl followed behind, carrying an ewer and some linen strips. Lyanna watched as she nearly stumbled at the sight of Rhaegar. Her own heart did something strange when the bastard took the child gently by the shoulders, restoring her balance. Lyanna scowled.

"You may leave," Rhaegar was telling the girl, after she had deposited the things she'd carried on a small table, placing a few copper coins in her hand. And that foolish child looked up at him as if he'd told her she would be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

Snorting, Lyanna sat on the edge of the bed. "Is it a custom where you are from, ser, to treat the serving wenches better than you do your future wife?" she asked, noting with mortifying confusion that the question sprang from her lips quite bitter.

The King's bastard made a noncommittal sound that might have meant anything, but otherwise offered no answer. Instead he took one of the linen strips and dipped it in the bowl of water. Lyanna kept her gaze on him. He came towards her with the soaked material and without resistance she pushed one hand forward. She might well dislike him, but there was no reason to suffer needlessly.

Rhaegar, with a gentleness she had never seen before, took her hurt limb and washed the wounds. Despite the obvious care with which he worked, Lyanna could not help but jump every so often. It stung. She had had worse, but still, the situations were very different. Repeating the process with her other hand as well, her soon-to-be husband then bandaged her wrists. Lyanna looked at them, wrapped in white. Rhaegar was staring at them too.

Defensively, Lyanna pulled both hands away, resting them upon her upper middle. "What is it, ser?"

He blinked a few times, as if confused, then a small smile crossed his lips. Lyanna's stomach somersaulted. "Nothing, my lady." He looked at her from the top of her head to the bottom, a cursory glance some might say, but Lyanna was quite certain it was different. "You are quite small, aren't you?"

The observation brought a light flush to her cheeks. Lyanna was sure that prolonged exposure to him would someday leave her permanently red-faced. "It is not something I had any say in," she said, glowering at him. If it were up to her, she'd be as tall as the beautiful Cersei Lannister, or even the less impressive Lysa Tully.

The bastard grinned at her. "Apologies, my lady. I did not mean to imply that I was displeased." Something in his gaze shifted. He was a very strange man, to be looking at her as he was.

Not knowing how to react to that, Lyanna turned her face away from him, settling her gaze on a bare wall. She reminded herself that breathing was essential to living, so she took one shaky breath and willed her heart to stop beating so loudly.

"You should change your clothes, my lady, if you are so keen on observing traditions," he reminded her, the sweetness of inertia dissipating with his voice. Startled, Lyanna glanced at him once more. "Your dress and your cloak," he explained, not without a hint of amusement.

"As soon as you have left the room, ser," she replied, sitting up from the bed and walking towards once of the trunks. If she had expected him to be gone by the time she'd pulled out her dress, she was sorely disappointed to still find him in the room when she turned around. He had seated himself near the window and was reading something from that small ledger of his.

Bristling, Lyanna slammed the top of the trunk down. It certainly got his attention, as she'd intended, but once his eyes were on her, all imprecations she wished to throw his way suddenly fled her mind. "You are still here," she said, somewhat lamely.

A cutting smile crossed his lips. "Change, my lady. I've not a mind to touch you now."

Looking down at herself, Lyanna felt a stab of pain at his declaration. Rhaegar had returned his attention to his book and Lyanna, deliberately, did not take her eyes away off of him as she stripped out of her travelling dress. It was dusty and perhaps her hair wasn't perfect, but still, she was not an ungainly woman. Pursing her lips Lyanna slipped her other dress on.

There was no looking glass in the room, but she did not need one. Lyanna had been working with her mother on the dress since before leaving for Harrenhall. She glanced down at the intricate pattern of silver and dark grey beads.

For some unknown reason, tears filled her eyes, blurring her sight. Mother should have seen her in the dress on her wedding day. Not wanting to draw attention to herself and her tears, Lyanna knelt by the trunk and pried the lid open once more. She pulled out a comb and mechanically went about untangling the snarls in her hair.

Once that that was taken care of, Lyanna gingerly extricated her maiden cloak from the trunk and hugged it to her chest, inhaling the scent of home that still clung to it. She rocked on her heels gently, steeling herself against the rumble of emotion that threatened to explode within her. The she-wolf reminded herself that she was not only acting for her family. Loathsome as the match was to her, it meant survival and survival was worth grabbing with both hands even if it involved the trade it did.

Lyanna stood to her feet with a deep sigh. She squared her shoulders and mentally went through the only military motions she had ever managed to learn from Ned. She would be well. The promise rang false in her ears, but Lyanna ignored the burn. She turned to look at Rhaegar. He was still poring over whatever it was that captivated him so. Indecisively, she took a few steps towards him only to stop.

She glanced around as if surfacing from a dream. Shaking her head, Lyanna marched on, nearing him even more. She tapped his shoulder lightly, as if afraid that he would truly look up from his ledger. Rhaegar took a moment, but he closed the book and slowly, seemingly not in any hurry, turned his face towards her. How had he ignored her all this time, she wondered, when she had been acutely and infuriatingly aware of his presence?

"I am ready, ser," she said, her hand rising in a gesture of presentation. She did not know what she expected from him. Rhaegar inspected her for a brief moment before standing to his feet and gave a sharp nod. Her heart sank. Lyanna nodded back, a short gesture filled with resentment.

He offered her his arm. Lyanna hesitated before taking it. If he was so very displeased with her, then why did he insist upon wedding her? This time, his steps had slowed down so she could keep up at a comfortable pace. What a strange man he was, she found herself thinking once again.

When the door opened, the two guards stationed without lowered their eyes from them and Lyanna could heard them moving behind them after they had passed.

The same horse she had ridden on from Riverrun was given to her. Rhaegar did not wait for anyone. He lifted her up and placed her sideways on the saddle. Lyanna grimaced at her dress. It was lovely, but it did impede her riding. Not unlike before, Rhaegar guided both horses. To her surprise and delight, Lyanna spied her father and brothers being given horses as well, though they had not been released from their bindings.

She looked upon Rhaegar, expecting that he would wish to exchange words. But if it was possible, he looked even more closed off. Lyanna gulped softly. Should she thank him? Should she pretend indifference? Not managing to make up her mind, Lyanna settled upon the middle path. Shyly, she touched his leg with her foot, the soft slipper meeting tough leather.

He did not fully glance at her but she knew instinctively that she had his attention. Lyanna subsequently gave him a long thankful look before her eyes fell to the road. It was quite enough for one day, she reckoned. The muscled beast beneath her snorted as if deriding her thoughts. Lyanna pursed her lips and realised with a streak of horror that she had actually allowed her guard down for the first time in his presence.

The memory of his treatment in the dungeons of Riverrun came flashing back in her mind. Her own muscles tensed as phantom pain brushed against her skull. What sort of man had she agreed to wed? Lyanna did not dare glance at him again. She knew not if she could survive something like that.

Instead she waited in silence until they had reached the sept. There waited Rhaegar's right-hand man and a soldier. Lyanna was helped down from her horse, as Rhaegar strode forward, pushing the doors of the sept apart. Lyanna followed, but was stopped on the first step.

"Your father, my lady," the man who had helped her down reminded her. Lyanna looked into his eyes and noted with some concern that he bore a striking similarity to Rhaegar. Had the King sired more than one bastard? She could not recall.

"My gratitude," she trailed off, inviting him to give a name.

"Arthur Dayne, my lady," he replied smoothly. But he did not linger. Lyanna watched as he pulled back and her father came limping towards her. The maiden had not noticed an injury to his leg before. She wanted to scowl at the soldiers that snickered, but knew that at best they would laugh off her scorn, and at worst, well, she did not wish to think of that.

Rickard Stark ascended the first stair and looked at her with sad eyes. "You look lovely, daughter," he complimented, taking her hand and placing it in the crook of his arm.

She felt numb. Lyanna looked at her feet as they climbed the rest of the steps. There were only five in all. She looked up, her eyes falling without meaning to upon the two men that stood between the altars of the Father and the Mother. Lyanna's grip tightened on her father's hand.

"Easy now," Rickard whispered. "Do not be frightened."

She was not. Lyanna did not tell her father as much but she strode forward to the best of her abilities. Her father walked slowly. She couldn't tell if he meant to annoy the bastard or if he was bothered by his injured leg. But she tried to rein in her hurried steps.

The ceremony was a blur. The Septon said something about marriage being blessed by the gods and Lyanna was tempted to laugh, especially when he reached the part about love and devotion. Love and devotion, she considered, were rare. Even the most advantageous of matched lacked such components for the most part. She, however, kept her head bowed in a mockery of piety and concentrated on breathing. Suddenly the dress felt too tight for her and she wished for a looser riding garment. She should have just told Rhaegar she did not care for traditions.

When it came the time to repeat her vows, Lyanna wished for some sort of miracle. She looked upon the statue of the Mother and wondered if, in her mercy, the deity would not agree to have the ground open and swallow her whole. Unfortunately, Southron deities seemed unwilling to accept the supplication of Northerners. Thus Lyanna monotonously delivered her vows before the Septon and the gods.

She allowed her hand to be tied to Rhaegar's as the Septon pronounced them wedded and did not protest when her cloak was removed only to be replaced with a dark coloured one. He was a bastard, so she doubted the cloak bore any markings. Lyanna appreciated the rick wool against her shoulders though. Hers had been made for warmer climates than the one they were currently in.

There was no kiss, expect for a short bush of lips to hers. But Lyanna would not call that a kiss. She compared it to Robert's sloppy attempt at wooing her. Startlingly enough, she found that she had been more disgusted of that one her suitor had delivered than of the one she received from her husband. At least Rhaegar had had the decency not to drink himself half into a stupor.

When she turned around Lyanna took in the other people that had entered the sept. They were all Rhaegar's men, except for her brothers, none of whom looked particularly joyful on the occasion. Lyanna nodded towards the three of them. She gave the youngest one a tremulous smile and a little nod to assure him she was fine. Benjen nodded back but his eyes still searched her figure.

"My lady," Rhaegar called, breaking her out of her reverie. She had little choice but to give him her hand and bravely step forth. As they walked towards the door, he spoke to her. "We shall spend this night at the inn and tomorrow morning we shall be on out way."

It did not take a person of great intelligence to know what would follow. Lyanna bit back on a whimper of terror and tried to mute her harsh breathing. "I understand, ser," she answered, her fingers curling into a fist.

* * *

Rhaegar entered the room slowly and looked at the young woman sitting on the edge of the bed, drying the last drags of water from her hair. Lyanna looked at him through narrowed eyes, the comb stopping momentarily in its tracks before picking up again at the same rhythm. She did not speak.

Perhaps it was fear that stopped her. Or mayhap another emotion. For his part, Rhaegar knew that they had to seal their deal permanently. She continued to watch him as he removed his long robes and jerkin; he could feel her eyes on him, her gaze burning. But he was no boy. He allowed her the perusal even as he sat down on the bed next to her and busied himself with pulling off his boots.

His wife stood up and walked to the small table. She placed the comb down and remained there for as few long moments. Rhaegar imagined that, much like a soldier before battle, she was gathering her courage. He let her be for the moment.

She turned around soon enough and walked towards him with halting steps, each one seeming to take more and more of her energy and power of conviction. Rhaegar remained seated on the edge of the bed, looking up at her. She was truly small, dainty.

The memory of her chasing those squires with a tourney sword brought a smile to his lips. Small, aye, but fierce. A she-wolf through and through. She shivered before him, having stopped fully two paces away from him. Rhaegar reached out for her, grabbing gently at her still bandaged wrists. He allowed his hands to slide until he had hold of her fingers.

"Are you afraid?" he asked, for the moment allowing her to tarry. Her eyes sparked with something like indignation. He could see pride working to contradict him.

True to herself, Lyanna raised her chin. "I am not afraid. Not at all."

"Good," he replied. "We should get this out of the way as soon as possible."

Disappointment flashed across her face, but she buried it beneath her usual mask soon enough. Lyanna nodded at him. "Then let us not waste anymore time." Her words had been delivered somewhat cuttingly, but Rhaegar was in no mood to sit and analyse them.

Leaving his position on the bed, he crossed the distance between them and without one more word set about his work. He undid the knot of her girdle and allowed the single golden line to fall to the ground. The dress was a simple piece, uncomplicated compared to others he had seen. Rhaegar, without even looking, started rising the skirts, gathering them in his hands and pulling upwards. Lyanna lifted her hands after a moment of hesitation.

Then she stood before him in her shift, a pale little ghost shivering in the cold night air. "You should get into bed," he told her. Before he could even move, Lyanna had dashed past him and had hidden herself beneath the heavy furs on the bed.

From her position beneath the furs, Lyanna watched in fascination as he undressed. She, shy, at first did not dare look any lower than his chest. But in the end curiosity won the battle and she lowered her gaze at that one part of the male anatomy that was whispered about with hushed breaths and many a giggle. A gasp lodged itself in her throat.

She drew the covers tighter about her, clinging to her only shield with a determination that surprised even her. She had known the moment would come. Forcing herself to relax, Lyanna gazed away from her lawfully wedded husband and looked at the ceiling. She heard rather than saw his approach. But soon enough a wave of chilly air invaded her warm sanctuary and an impossibly hot weight settled over her. Lyanna's vision was filled with an image of Rhaegar. She met his eyes bravely, unwilling to allow her cowardice anymore ground.

He wedged a leg between her thighs and opened her unhurriedly as his hands mapped out her body. Lyanna lied there beneath him, trying not to squirm. When at a long last she relaxed and he settled in the cradle of her thighs, Lyanna placed a hand on his shoulder. She did not know what he saw in her face, but whatever it was it proved enough for him to proceed.

He entered cautiously; she had to give him that. But despite it, even upon the first reluctant breach, Lyanna gasped in pain. Her muscled instinctively tightened to stop the intrusion. Rhaegar smoothed her hair back from her face and whispered to her that she should relax. Lyanna longed for nothing more than for him to be done.

Alas, her husband did not budge until her limbs lost some of their stiffness. His progress was slow and Lyanna wondered what sort of cruel person she had wedded that he would carry on forever with the assault. Her passage tightened almost convulsively. It burned. Tears pricked at the corner of her eyes. It took more than one push for him to be fully in and at some point he had ripped through a thin layer of tissue, which Lyanna had guessed to be her maidenhead. That had stung, enough for her to give a startled cry. But then he stopped and seemingly waited for something.

Lyanna waited with him, short of breath and very much confused. She placed her chin on his shoulder and her hands finally left the sheets in peace, wrapping around him and conducting their own search. Closing her eyes, the young woman took in the feel of him against her, the weight of him atop of her. Their abdomens touched, skin sliding against skin when he began to move.

The back and forth motion of the swaying was punctured by a stab of discomfort, the pain having dulled. Lyanna held onto him and tried to find something to distract her. But the whole experience was too new and her thoughts refused to turn away.

So she continued to cling him until all his muscles quivered and shuddered and something hot filled her nether region, his grunt vibrating against her own shoulder. He relaxed against her and pulled out. Lyanna grimaced at the wet stickiness she felt against her thighs.

When she tried to move, however, sharp pain flooded her. A whimper drew forth from her lips. What had he done to her? She forced herself to rise on her elbows and, breathing heavily, searched for his form at her side.

Rhaegar had by that time risen to his feet and was returning with the ewer of fresh water and a rag.


End file.
